Blast from the Past, Part III
by Jada115
Summary: Revised. Alan helps Miranda with her divorce and their relationship progresses in an unusual way. Based on David E. Kelley characters.


Blast from the Past, Part III

Alan met Denny on the balcony.

"Where've you been?" Denny said.

"Taking Miranda home."

"Seems like you're making this a habit."

"We have slipped into a rather comfortable routine. And well, she needs my help, Denny—at least until we can get her soon to be ex-husband out of the picture." Alan said, sitting down with his drink and cigar.

"Haven't they divorced yet?"

"He's stalling." Alan puffed his cigar. "We have a few days left on the TRO before we go back to court for the permanent restraining order."

"So how's it going with, uh, help me out…."

"Miranda."

"Yea, that's it."

He rolled his eyes. "I actually can't wait until this is all over. I'd like to have a real date with her: a night at the theatre, a fancy dinner, something French, some dancing, a soft kiss at the end of the night at her front door that eventually leads to…." he trailed off, relishing his fantasy.

"I think you're turning into a girl, fantasizing about French food and dancing. What's the matter with you?"

Alan laughed.

"You still haven't slept with her yet have you?"

"Not really."

"Not really? What does that mean?"

"Well," Alan hesitated, "I don't really want to get into this right now Denny."

"What do you mean?"

"It's not appropriate."

"Then you _have_ to tell me!" Denny said, leaning over the arm of his chair. "I'm your _best_ friend."

Alan chuckled. He dithered. "I'll tell you, but this must stay between us."

"Okay, okay!"

"Every night I take Miranda home and then I promise to call her at night—you know, before I go to bed."

"Oh, this is getting good." Denny looked at him eagerly.

"So, being a man of my word, I do call her—every night. At first, it was just to check up on her, make sure she's okay. And we would have these fabulous conversations. I mean, two, three hours and we've talked about everything."

"Boring."

"But lately it has become, well…."

"Yea…"

Alan wavered. "Erotic in its nature."

"I knew this was going to be good. When you say erotic, you mean…"

"At first it was just banter, teasing, playing around, like," he searched for the right words, "like verbal foreplay. But lately it has become…."

"Just tell me already. I've got the mad cow. I'm going to forget what you're telling me before you ever spit it out."

"Phone sex, Denny," Alan blurted out. "We've been having phone sex."

Denny put his hand to his heart. "Oh Judas Priest! I might have a heart attack! That's incredible! Phone sex." He sat back in his chair, puffing his cigar, looking out at the Boston skyline. He chuckled. "I love it."

"I have to admit, Denny, it is incredible. She takes me to an old familiar degenerate place—a place I haven't visited in quite some time. I can be completely myself in all my depravity. It's so liberating." Alan beamed.

"You sound almost happy."

Alan laughed. "Very." He sipped his scotch.

Denny turned to him. "But let me ask you something? Why would you do that when you could have her for real?"

"She's still married, Denny. Remember?"

"Oh yea. Why is that a problem?"

"It's a little too messy when there's a husband involved, even if he is estranged."

"Never stopped me."

"Nevertheless. I don't like sharing my girls with husbands or boyfriends. I'd much rather have the girl all to myself. I'm selfish that way."

"How is she? Is she good? She looks like she'd be good."

"She's spectacular."

"What sort of things does she say?"

"I'm not telling you that," Alan said, laughing. "That's where I draw the line."

"You've told me about your girls before."

"This is different. With her it's….different; she's private, Denny."

"I would tell you!"

"I've got to have something all to myself, Denny. I can't share _every_ detail with you."

"Oh all right," Denny said grumpily. He looked up at the sky again, and said dreamily, "Phone sex with Melinda."

"Miranda."

"Yea, whatever." Denny paused then said, "Sleep over? You can call her from my place."

Alan stared at him blankly. "I don't think so, Denny."

"I can get on the other phone. We can three way."

"See. This is why I didn't want to tell you."

"You're no fun."

"So be it."

Alan called Miranda as promised when he got back to his hotel room.

"Hello," she said groggily. His skin tingled at the sound of her sleepy voice.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"That's okay. It had been a long day, I was unusually tired. What time is it?"

"About 11."

"Are you just now getting home from work?"

"Yes, actually." He was loosening his tie and removing his shoes.

"You work way too much; it's going to make you dull."

"I was hoping you could help me with that."

"Hmmm….whatever could you mean?"

"You know, one of things I liked about being in an exclusive relationship is that when I came home late, my lover would already be in bed, fast asleep. I could crawl into bed next to her and gently wake her with kisses up her thigh. And during that brief time while she was still half asleep, I could have my way with her; her body was still completely responsive to my touch—the desires of her body, conflicting with her desire to sleep, as her mind slipped in and out of its dreamy haze. It's truly beautiful and serene."

"Like right now." She laughed, low, throaty. He liked the mischievous undercurrent in it; it felt velvety against his ear.

"I'm curious as to what you're wearing at this moment."

"As your luck would have it, I'm not wearing anything."

"Oh my, seems I did get lucky."

That throaty laugh again.

"You disappointed me today, Alan."

"How so?" He seemed genuinely concerned.

"You didn't rate my sweater," she said in mock offense.

"Oh!" he laughed, "Is that all? Well now that I'm thinking of you _au natural_, I can't possibly recall what you were wearing earlier today."

"I go through all the trouble to dress for you and you don't even notice."

"That's because I was busy noticing other things."

"Like what?"

"Like that silver anklet around your left ankle—the one with the little silver heart on it."

"You noticed that?" she said flatly.

"It was the first time you've worn it. It caught my attention."

"Well, your malfeasance is inexcusable."

"What is my sentence?"

"I'll think of something."

"How about you describe for me what you had on and I'll rate it now."

"Nope, the moment is passed. It's just not the same. I've come to depend on you and then you let me down."

"Isn't there any room for human error?"

"Possibly."

"I promise I'll do better tomorrow. I won't neglect my duties."

"If I recall, I believe you have a duty to fulfill right now."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

"We'll consider it community service for your malfeasance."

He chuckled.

She proceeded to tell him in no uncertain terms some of the things she would enjoy doing _to_ him and _with_ him

At the end of their conversation, Alan said, "My God, Miranda, you are…delightful."

"You're not so bad yourself."

"I just can't wait to…."

"Me too."

He grew silent. He was about to take a risk, a particular risk that scared the hell out of him. Now he was breathing unevenly for a different reason.

"Miranda." The line went silent. He could do this.

"Alan? Are you there?"

"Yes."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes," he said somberly. "I'm," he was struggling, "Not very good with matters of the…." he paused again.

"Take your time."

He closed his eyes. "Heart."

"Okay."

"And I," he sighed heavily and looked up at the ceiling.

She waited.

"Well, it's just that…"

She waited.

He chickened out. "You should wear something soft and pink tomorrow. You look good in pink."

"You know something, Alan?"

"What?"

"I really like you too."

"Goodnight."

"Sweet dreams, Alan."

They hung up.

Miranda was already at her desk when Alan showed up at work the next day. She looked up at him and smiled. He stopped and locked eyes with her. In the time it took for her to say "Good Morning," he had already mentally undressed her.

She handed him a memo. "Did you sleep well?"

"Extremely," he smiled warmly.

"And…," she stood and straightened his tie, "Did you have sweet dreams?"

He sniffed the air around her, taking in her fresh lavender perfume, gazing into her eyes. "Very." He traced her clavicle to her shoulder. "And it turns out once I get a…_taste_ of something sweet I have to have it all the time…every day." He fondled her pink sweater. Angora. "I have quite a sweet tooth."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Interesting," she said, moving very close to his lips as if to kiss him. Then she moved her lips close to his ear and said in her most seductive voice, "I happen to have an _intense_ sweet tooth myself. Sometimes it's all I can think about."

He could feel her breath on his ear, and that voice, her closeness, her scent, tightened his body with desire—on the brink of pouncing on her.

"Also," she said.

"Uh-huh," he said weakly.

"Paul wants to see you in his office. Seems he's unhappy about the case you took against Judge Werner," she whispered.

She pulled away and looked at him coquettishly, winked.

Slightly annoyed, he said, "Miranda, don't ever… mix Paul's name with…with…with _that_. Seduction and Paul don't mix."

Miranda smiled.

"Bad, bad, Miranda."

"Do I get a spanking for that?"

"Okay stop doing that for the time being."

"What?" she said innocently.

"Distracting me. You're putting these images…" Suddenly his tie felt too tight; he pulled at it. "in my head when I'm about to go see…"

"But I thought that would help."

"No, it doesn't. It so doesn't."

"Sorry."

He looked her up and down and closed his eyes. He held out his briefcase and coat to her. "Will you please put this in my office? I would prefer to not delay my ass-chewing. I like to get them all in before my second cup of coffee in the morning."

He started down the hall toward Paul's office. Then turned back. "And by the way, Miranda."

"Yes?"

"I was prepared to give you an eight for your ensemble, but after your behavior, I'm deducting points. I can only give you a six at most."

She made a mock sad face and spun around to put his coat and case in his office. She looked back over her shoulder, catching him watching her. He squeezed his eyes shut and walked away.

That night, Derek was sitting in his apartment, in his boxers, drinking beer and watching the Lakers play the Celtics. There was a knock at his door. He got up and opened it, eyes glued on the television. He figured it was Tommy and Bill coming over to watch the game. He hoped they brought more beer.

"Hey," he said. The game cut to commercial, so he turned to look at his visitors. He only had a moment to glance the three masked men all dressed in black, before one of them wacked him in the face with something hard. He fell back. They stepped in and shut the door and locked it. He felt his nose tickle. He touched it; he was bleeding.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Get on your knees."

He scrambled to his knees. "My wallet is over there in my pants. Take what you want."

One of the men pointed a gun at him. "This isn't about money."

"Whoa! Hey guys, I think you got the wrong guy."

"Shut up." The man with the gun said. "We want something else from you."

Another man stepped up with a paper and pen. He swept the beer cans and empty pizza box off the coffee table and put down a paper and pen.

"Get over there," the gunman said.

Derek crawled to the table.

"See that paper."

Derek looked at it: Contract for Divorce.

"Sign it."

"Up yours!" Derek said, "I'm not giving you a friggin' thing. Does that bitch think she can get away with this?"

"Ah, we got a tough guy. See here's the deal tough guy: one of two things is going to be on that paper, your signature or your brains." The gunman put the gun against his head. "Either way this will be permanently settled. But if you do this the easy way, you still get to play around with that pretty little red head that comes over here from time to time."

"Yea, she's nice," said the guy with the bat. "I call dibs on her if we kill this guy. And boy do I have some plans for her," he sniggered.

"You leave her out of this!" Derek said.

The gunman shot Derek's last full beer can, just to prove he was serious. Derek jumped. Beer sprayed out all over the floor.

"Sign it or you're next." The gunman pressed the gun hard against Derek's skull. "So what's it going to be, sweet cheeks?"

"Okay, okay, okay, chill man."

"Wherever you see a red X, you sign. Don't forget the date."

Derek picked up the pen and hesitated.

"One…two…three…"

Derek began signing.

"Make sure you get all the little red marks, my friend. We don't want to have to come back."

"Good boy," the gunman said, patting Derek's head. The third guy grabbed the paper and pen and stuffed it in his pocket.

The gunman leaned down and whispered in Derek's ear, "Be careful son, we may be back any day now. Take it from me: divorce is an ugly thing; after my own divorce I couldn't stand being in the same state as my wife. I wanted to get out, have a new start. I suggest you do the same—start a new life somewhere else far, far away; it'll make a new man of you." He patted Derek's cheek.

The guy in the background stepped up and hit Derek across the back of the head, knocking him out.

Meanwhile, at Crane, Pool and Schmidt, Alan was waiting on Denny's balcony. Eventually, Denny showed up.

"Where have you been?"

"Talking to the new intern."

He sat down and lit his cigar.

"Natalie?"

"Oh yea, she's," he sucked air through his teeth.

"Probably too young. I doubt she's even 30."

"But she's loves me. I can tell."

"I'm sure of it."

"She may be number seven, Alan."

"I'm not sure about that Denny."

"I've got two things she wants."

"Which is?"

Denny counted off on his fingers as he said, "Money, power."

Alan shook his head. "Denny, you might want to go after women a little closer to your own age; they're less likely to kill you in the bedroom."

"Can you think of a better way to die? That's exactly how I want to go, Alan—wrapped up in a thigh sandwich."

Alan laughed.

"What about Melissa?"

"Miranda."

"Right."

"I've already taken her home."

Denny said, "You, uh, making any phone calls later?"

Alan chuckled. "Probably. I can't help myself. She might be the death of me."

"Wouldn't that be great? Both of us killed off in a thigh sandwich? But you're young, virile, passionate—surely you can keep up with her. There's not that much difference in your ages."

"It's not that."

"What is it then?"

"There's just all this pressure…this, this immense desire that threatens to just rip me open. She walks in the room, I can't breath and it feels like the floor is pulled out from under me. She stands near me, her perfume just…" he shook his head and puffed his cigar. "And that voice…my God. She calls me on my office phone to give me a message and my mind immediately goes to into all these vivid fantasies of her all because of…" he wavered, "you know."

Denny growled. "Phone sex." He chewed on the tip of his cigar. "You lucky bastard."

Alan stared at the skyline. "I don't know, Denny."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know if I can do this."

"Do what?"

"I chickened out."

"What are you talking about?"  
"Last night, I called her. We had a wonderful conversation. When it was over, I guess my…" he paused, "emotions were running a little high."

"You are a girl."

"I'm trying to be serious here, Denny. Can I have a moment?"

"Go ahead, girl."

"Never mind."

"I'm sorry," Denny said begrudgingly. "Tell me."

"This is an on-going issue Denny. I meet a girl, one I really like that…" he trailed off, shook his head.

"What?"

"It's always the girls like her. She's so beautiful, funny, intelligent—I respect the hell out of her."

"That's a problem."

"Well, I don't know if it's a _problem_."

"Of course it is. She's the most dangerous kind of woman because she has power over you."

Alan scoffed.

"No, no, listen. It's easy to let bimbos come and go—you don't really respect them, so it doesn't matter if they don't respect you; it's just physical. But this girl, Melanie…"

"Miranda."

"Whatever. She's gotten to you; she's under your skin, man. You've made the mistake of respecting her, of liking her. And you're scared to death she won't respect you—that she won't like you back. That's what makes her so dangerous; she has the power to actually _hurt _you because you actually _care_—not only about her, but you care about what she thinks and feels; most importantly, you care how she perceives you."

"Maybe you're right."

"I know I am. But you know what I would do?"

"What?" Alan looked at him.

"Just go with it, man. Think of it like a roller coaster; it may be a little scary, but once you're on it, the thrill, the excitement takes over the fear."

"I don't know. It's been so long since I've allowed myself to love, to really fall in love that I don't know if I can, Denny."

"But it's that fear, that thrill that lets you know you're really alive. Nothing better than being in love, Alan—especially when it's all fresh and new."

They sat pensively, puffing their cigars, looking out across the skyline.

"So," Denny said, "How's her little divorce situation coming."

"Slowly."

"Has he signed the papers yet?"

"No," Alan said flatly. "We're so close to the PRO hearing, I will approach him at the court room."

Denny nodded. "Too bad. Anything I can do?"

"I don't think so." Alan sipped his scotch.

Denny's cell phone rang. "Hello. Good. That's what I like to hear. In the morning—early. My office." He hung up and turned to Alan. "Keep me posted."

"I will."

When Miranda arrived at work the next day, a document lay in the center of her desk. It was the divorce contract. She flipped through it quickly—everything was signed. She sank down into her desk chair, relief and joy flooding her body. She couldn't believe it.

Alan came around the corner with a cup of coffee. He stopped short when he saw Miranda standing there, holding up a paper, wriggling and bouncing in place, barely able to suppress her joy. A crooked smile crossed his lips and he cocked his head to one side, letting his eyes and mind rove over her bubbling body. She ran up to him and took his coffee and ran with it over to her desk and set it down.

Alan stood there in confusion. "Wh-what's going on? Why did you take my coffee?"

"Because of this," she said, slamming against him in a tight hug.

"I see." He cautiously put his hands around her. "Can I ask what I've done to warrant this little delight?"

She pulled back and kissed his cheek and hugged him again.

"Miranda, if you keep wriggling against me like that, we're going to have to find a more private place."

She giggled. "Look!" she held the paper up for him to see. He squinted and focused.

"Is that your divorce contract?"

"Yes! It's all signed. Alan, he signed it!"

"He signed it," he said doubtfully.

"Yes."

When it dawned on him, he said, with more excitement, "He signed it!"

"Yes."

They grabbed each other's arms and jumped up and down with joy, "He signed it! He signed it! He signed it!"

Alan hugged her, rocking back and forth with her; he sniffed her hair. "I'm so happy! How did you get him to sign it?"

She pulled back from him and furrowed her brows. "Wait a minute. I thought _you _got him to sign it."

Alan shook his head, confused. "Well, I was working on it, but…but…he never signed it for me. I hadn't actually approached him with the papers yet. I was waiting until we saw him at the PRO hearing."

"Odd."

"Yes, it is."

"Well then how did it get signed?"

Alan grew pensive. "I don't know."

"Well," Miranda shrugged. "Who cares, right? It's done."

"And you're sure that's his signature?"

"Yes. Looks like it. You're happy aren't you?"

"Yes, yes—so _inexpressibly_ happy." He laughed. "I can't even begin to tell you what a relief…it's just I'm perplexed by the mystery."

"Let's consider it a miracle, a blessing, and just go with that."

He smiled. He paused, moving close to her, "You know, Miranda, it occurs to me," he lowered his voice seductively and put his hands on her hips, pulling her into him, "that now that you are single again, you and I have a standing appointment for a _real_ date."

"Yes, that occurs to me too."

He slid his hands up her rib cage and locked his gaze with hers. "Miranda, I was wondering if you would like to go out with me tonight."

She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Alan, I would love to go on a date with you," she paused and looked up at shyly, "but, I can't tonight." She winced. "I'm sorry."

"Oh. Well," he tried to play off his disappointment. "That's fine."

"One of my friends asked me to go with her to the movies. I haven't seen her in a long time and I've already said yes. Can we do it tomorrow?"

"You tell me. You're in control of my schedule book."

"I'll see to it that we are both available tomorrow night."

"What time?"

"Six. You'll pick me up at my place, which means you cannot work late."

"Dress in something provocative, yet elegant."

She laughed. "Where are you taking me?"

"I think I'll keep that a little secret for now. I have some calls to make." He kissed her forehead.


End file.
